


The Heat is on in Saigon

by amutemockingjay



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alexander is so torn, Alternate Universe--Vietnam War, Angst, Eliza is so pure, F/M, Flashbacks, Gen, Internal Conflict, Loss, Love at First Sight, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, angst happened with it instead, please forgive me for all the angst, really I tried so help me, sorry guys I tried to write smut and failed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-10 12:51:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7845778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amutemockingjay/pseuds/amutemockingjay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years after the war, Alexander reflects on the love of his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Heat is on in Saigon

**Author's Note:**

> Hi y'all, so I'm the first to admit that my brain works in weird ways, and somehow got really inspired by Miss Saigon, and this fic came out of it. I did some research on the Vietnam War as a result, and as a former historian, felt really conflicted about all of the issues of American imperialism and French colonialism and everything that resulted in that mess. I wasn't entirely sure how to write this as a result, and finally just decided to have Alexander struggle with a lot of the same reservations I had. Miss Saigon has its own issues, notably with casting, and I fully acknowledge that as well. Either way, a lot of HamLiza angst happened, and I would really appreciate any feedback y'all have for me! Also, this was originally going to have some smut in it then I kind of failed at that, so sorry! Also, in my headcanon for this Eliza is half Vietnamese, half French, and thus speaks both languages fluently.

New York, 1978

Alexander Hamilton woke up screaming. Soaked in sweat, hands shaking, he tried to compose himself. But it was near impossible. Not after what he had seen. Villages shelled, smoke and fire from bombs tainted the red sky. Rice fields overflowing with corpses. The chaos of Saigon, of all those voices clamoring for help, for a chance to be saved…

And she was everywhere. Running from soldiers, dust in her hair, tears pouring down her face. Tortured at the hands of the Viet Cong. In the streets, darting shells. Being shot in the head, in the heart. And he stood there, helpless, his gun jammed, his limbs unable to move, unable to save her. Guilt crushed him into pieces. Had he done enough? No. It could never be enough.

Next to him, his wife, Maria, stirred and sat up. “Alex?” She murmured, and he absentmindedly brushed her hair back.

“It’s fine,” he told her. “Go back to sleep.”

Maria rolled over, and her soft breathing let him know that she had fallen asleep.

He never told her. He couldn’t tell her. How could he possibly tell her that he had left the love of his life three years ago, in a hellhole that he could never forgive himself for? He didn’t even know if she was still alive. His heart ached; he closed his eyes and all he could see were his nightmares. He shook his head. He had built a new life here, back in America. He couldn’t think about what might have been. The war was over. He glanced out the window, comforted by the sight of the moon. He wondered if she could see that same moon, and take comfort in it.

“Eliza,” he whispered, her name a curse on his lips, one he could never forget. “My Eliza.”

* * *

 

Saigon, 1975

Laurens, Mulligan, and Lafayette burst into his room without knocking. This was normal. Alexander sat his desk, hunched over his books and papers. The war was as good as lost. It had been lost for years. Now, as he sat at the embassy with the other Marines, he found himself questioning—not for the first time—why he had joined this war to begin with.

He was nineteen. Nineteen and he had been so desperate to escape his life in St. Croix, to do something great. War and glory and dying like a martyr had been a place to start. But this war was ugly. Ugly and unwinnable and he hated every moment of it. He had seen too much, in the Vietnamese countryside, before he had been stationed in Saigon. The South Vietnamese army was falling apart. And he wasn’t entirely certain if he was doing the right thing; if America had been correct in getting involved in the conflict to begin with.

“Alex?” Laurens waved a hand in front of his face, and Alexander guessed there had been many words before that “Alex”.

“Huh?”

“We’re going out tonight. Get a couple of drinks. You want to come?” Laurens looked at Alexander expectantly.

Usually, he would be hard pressed to say no. They were his best friends, the only ones who understood exactly how he felt about this whole Vietnam mess to begin with. The only ones he could drink to forget with. But tonight, he didn’t want to move. He wanted to block everything out, and stay stuck firmly in his misery.

Some of this must have read on his face, because Laurens placed a hand on his shoulder. “Wallowing won’t help, Alex,” he said softly. “Don’t be alone.”

“We’ll take care of you, mon ami.” Lafayette surrounded Alex, and Mulligan followed suit.

Alexander sighed. It was true, lying on his bed and contemplating his life would change nothing. “Okay,” he said.

The bar was like most in Saigon—crowded, thick with smoke, and Marines. He could barely hear the music over the din and the girls, scantily clad and dancing provocatively. In between the girls, he could spot the owner of the spot, nicknamed The Engineer. He waved at the group as they settled at the bar.

“Hamilton, welcome back! Can I get you a girl tonight?”

Alexander shook his head. His first few months in Saigon he had gone a bit crazy; had earned the reputation of a tomcat. But now, the thought of being with some random girl made him feel sick inside.

“No thanks,” he managed to say. “Just a beer, please.”

As he glanced around the room, a flash of aquamarine caught his eye. A dress, worn by a girl serving drinks to a crowd of rowdy Marines. Dark, straight hair hung down to her back; she looked like an angel in hell. Instantly, he felt his heart begin to beat faster, yearning to be near her, to speak to her. One of the Marines made a grab for her as she handed him his drink; she flushed and looked down. Alexander was struck with the urge to get her out of this place, somewhere quiet, where he could just hold her and listen to the beating of her heart.

“Jesus, John—who is she?” He nudged Laurens, who looked up from his drink. He followed Alexander’s gaze towards the girl. Laurens hopped down from his seat at the bar, and Mulligan followed.

“Let’s find out,” Mulligan said to Alexander.

He watched as Mulligan and Laurens parted the crowd to speak with her; Mulligan making her smile. Alexander was taken by that brief flash of her teeth, the first time she looked at ease since he had noticed her. The Engineer smoothly stepped between Laurens and the girl, and seemed to be speaking, gesturing with his hands. Alexander saw a wad of cash being exchanged, and the Engineer gestured towards Alexander at the bar. The girl nodded, and Laurens and Mulligan followed.

Mulligan crossed the room in three easy sides; in an instant he was by Alexander’s side. He was wearing a shit-eating grin on his face.

“What is it, Herc?” Alexander sipped his beer.

“We bought you the girl. Laurens and I. You’ve been so down lately, we thought it would cheer you up.”

Alexander looked down at his drink. “Herc, I don’t want to have sex with her. Not like that, at least.” He had always been good with words, had always run out at the mouth, always had a million and one arguments for something. Now, he found himself speechless.

“Her name’s Eliza. She’s new at the bar. Seventeen. A virgin from the country, the Engineer says. Don’t have sex with her if you don’t want to, Alex. But she’s yours for the night.”

The girl—Eliza—was speaking to Laurens in rapid-fire Vietnamese, so much so that Alexander couldn’t keep up. Laurens was the one who was especially skilled in languages. Alexander’s Vietnamese left much to be desired, but he was fluent in French and Spanish.

She approached him with small steps. “My name is Eliza,” she said.

He took her hand in his, and kissed the tips of her fingers. “Alexander Hamilton. If it takes fighting a war for us to meet, then it will have been worth it,” he said in halting Vietnamese.

She flushed pink, and Alexander couldn’t help but notice how beautiful she was, with a little color in her cheeks.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Laurens said to Alexander, and went to join Laf and Mulligan at the bar.

“Would you like to dance?” She asked Alexander, who nodded.

He lead her to the middle of the dance floor, trying to ignore the other Marines who were pawing at their conquests. Honestly, the whole scene made him feel worse. He wanted to get Eliza out of here; she didn’t belong in a Saigon brothel being harassed by drunk Americans. He placed his hands on her small waist, and she leaned in, resting her head on his shoulder as they swayed in time to the music.

“I like you, Alexander,” she said, in broken English, and damn if he didn’t feel his heart skip a beat.

“I want to—“ He struggled to find the words in Vietnamese. “Parlez-vous Francais?”

“Oui,” she answered.

He sagged with relief. “I want to take you far away from this place,” he said in French.

The gaze she gave him was pleading. “Please, take me away.”

He couldn’t bring her back to the barracks; he’d be in deep shit with his CO if they were discovered. “Away” turned out to be a small room on a busy Saigon street, not ideal but it would suit for now. The room was only furnished with a bed on a rusty frame. She sat on the edge of it, and he saw her reach for the buttons on the front of her dress.

He placed one hand on hers. “I’m not here to do that with you.”

“You’re not? Am I not…?”

“You’re beautiful, Eliza. That’s not the issue here. I just don’t want to take advantage of you. I don’t want to have you under these circumstances. You deserve so much more than a night in a rusty bed.”

Eliza looked up at him with gratitude. “You and your friends are the first Americans to tell me such things.”

Alexander didn’t want to know what kind of harassment she had received prior to their arrival. It would only serve to get his blood boiling, itching for an old fashioned duel.

“Your friend Laurens, he speaks very good Vietnamese,” she said. “He told me that they were trying to make you less sad, and that when you saw me, you lit up in a way they hadn’t seen in weeks.”

Alexander made a mental note to thank Laurens later. “He may have been right,” he managed to say.

In fact, Alexander knew that Laurens was more right than he could ever articulate. He had felt drawn to Eliza from the moment he laid eyes on her. Had wanted her, yes, in the most primal way, but he had also wanted to protect her. Protect her from the other Marines at the club, from the oily hands of the Engineer, from the enemy that circled the outskirts of Saigon. And to know her. To understand how she had ended up dancing at the club. Laurens had something about her being a country girl, only seventeen.

“I want to know you, Eliza.”

They sat so close to each other that their hips were touching. Hesitantly, Eliza took her hand in Alexander’s. His skin burned where she touched, and he was filled with longing for her, to press his lips against the tender skin of her neck.

“Surely you don’t want to hear the tale of another Vietnam girl.” He could see the mourning in her voice, the hopelessness created only by total destruction.

“I do, Eliza. I do.”

Tears spilled down her cheeks. “The Viet Cong attacked my village. I was out in the fields; I could see the fire turning the sky shades of red, grey with ash. They killed my parents and my sisters. I fled to Saigon; there was nowhere else for me to go.” Her voice broke, and her body shuddered with sobs.  She took a breath, and wiped at her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t be talking like this.”

Alexander wrapped his arms around her, holding her close to him. “Don’t apologize. You never need to apologize for speaking.” He procured a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the tears that were still running down her face. “I understand, in my own way. I’m an orphan, too.”

She looked up at him, blinking away the last of her tears. “You are?”

He nodded. He didn’t discuss his past like this, not ever. The only one to truly know his origins were Laurens, after a drunken night he’d rather forget. That Eliza brought out his vulnerability should have scared him, but instead of running away, he wanted to hold her until the end of time.

“Yes. My mother died when I was twelve. My father is…gone.”

Eliza leaned up against him, and he could feel her heart fluttering against his skin. His head swam; in all of his time romancing women, it had been nothing more than a game. A carefully rehearsed dance with an expected outcome. Feelings were rarely a part of it, nothing more than passing lust, at least. This was different. Eliza was different. Her story had touched a part of his soul. He wanted to love her.

She squeezed his hand. “I know your pain, and I wish for some way to relieve it.”

“The past lives in the past. There’s a million things I haven’t done.”

“A million things to do in America.” Her wide dark eyes drank in his features. “Tell me about America.”

And so he did. Painted pictures of life in New York, of the chaos that brought him back to life. Of meeting Laurens and Mulligan and Lafayette, of the heart-wrenching decision to go to war. She listened raptly to detailed descriptions of what seemed most mundane to him—the food, the fresh air, the buzz of people. He didn’t realize they had spoken for hours until he felt her begin to sag, fatigue overcoming her body.

“Sleep, Eliza.” He wrapped a tattered blanket around her and pressed a kiss between her eyes.

“Alexander?”

“Yes?”

“Will you stay with me?”

He kissed her again, this time, lightly brushing his lips with hers. “Always.”

* * *

 

He only slept three hours, as usual. Sitting on the wide windowsill, he watched the sun rise over Saigon, the light coming through the tattered curtains and across the bedspread. This was the first time he had ever stayed; he was usually out before she could wake, sneaking back to the barracks as night still ran the streets. He had hated himself for every brief, meaningless encounter, chasing the loathing with a shot from his flask.

She stirred, and woke; he could see the haze in her eyes as she finally registered where she was.

“Alexander?” She spotted him by the window and smiled. “You stayed.”

“I wasn’t going to leave you here.”

“I wouldn’t have blamed you if you did. You hold no obligation to me.” She rubbed her eyes.

He thought of his obligations, back at the Embassy. How meaningless they seemed, in the face of emotions he could barely admit to himself. He didn’t want to leave her now, not ever. But work beckoned.

“Can I see you tonight?” He could make some excuse and dip out early.

“I’ll be at the club,” she said, looking down at the tattered blanket.

He thought of her there, being jeered at by Marines, being sold into some bed by a man who could care less. A man, he realized, he once was. He hung his head. He could never be worthy of her. He couldn’t let her go back into that mess, either.

“No,” he said quietly. “No, you won’t. How would you like to stay with me?”

She blushed a little. “I’d like that very much.”

 “Let me make a call.”

There was a phone at the front desk of whatever establishment they were at; after some halting negotiations in Vietnamese it was all his for five minutes. He dialed Laurens’ number at the Embassy.

“Laurens?”

“Alex? Where the hell are you?”

“Not important; I need you to tell Washington I’m taking the rest of my leave.”

“What? Why? Alex, you can’t possibly—“

“It’s the girl, the one from last night. I can’t let her go back to that club, John, to be pawed at and sold and god knows what else. I think,” he lowered his voice a little, “I think I’m falling in love with her.”

“Alex, all leave’s been cancelled; do you have any idea what’s going on?”

“The usual shitshow, I assume.”

“Worse. We’re outgunned, outmanned, outnumbered, outplanned. Cities in South Vietnam are falling faster than we can count; Saigon can fall at any moment. They’re starting to ship us out. I won’t leave you behind. This is no game, Hamilton, you have to be back here now.”

“Give me one day, then, instead of two.”

“Alex—“

“John, _please_. Let me figure something out with Eliza.”

His mind splayed out in a thousand different directions, a thousand different scenarios. Bargirls like Eliza would not be looked on favorably by the new regime. She could be sent to a re-education camp, or worse.

Alexander heard Laurens sigh heavily. “You have one day, Alex. One day, and you have to get your ass back here by nightfall. I can’t make any promises after that.”

Alexander could have kissed him. “Thank you, John, you’re the best.”

He was met with a dial tone, and he rushed back to the room. Eliza sat cross-legged on the bed. He rushed over to her and took her hands in his.

“We have the whole day together. That’s all I could get; everything’s a mess. But we can do whatever you like.”

He realized there weren’t very many options in Saigon, not with things this fragile, the American-backed regime about to lose everything. Not a time to be in love.

“Will you teach me English?”

He kissed the tips of her fingers again; she was so kissable. “Of course.”

They made a game of it, her pointing to various items in the room and him giving her the name. Her stumbling over her pronunciations, hesitating until she got the word right. She was, like him, a perfectionist, bright and eager to learn.

“What’s the English word for this?” She made a kissing face.

“Kiss,” he said.

“Kiss,” she repeated. “Kiss.” She leaned in closer to him, close enough to whisper in his ear. “Kiss…me…Alexander,” she said in halting English.

And so he did, meeting his lips with hers. She was hesitant at first, but as he deepened the kiss she responded to him, pressing her body against his. His hands tangled in her hair; her tongue slipped into his mouth, his hands moving from her hair to her waist. She was intoxicating; every kiss, every breath, every touch only pushed him further in his longing.

“Eliza,” he murmured against her skin, as he pressed kisses to her collarbone, to her neck, to the dip just above her breasts. “My Eliza.”

“Make love to me, Alexander.”

He wanted so much more than this room, he wanted to give her everything. “Here? Now?”

“Yes.” Her hands moved further south.

In one fluid motion, he carried her to bed.

* * *

 

The hours passed too quickly. In between more English lessons, whispered secrets, and time between the sheets, the sun moved across the room. Alexander wished he had more time with her; that he could mold time to his own demands.

An idea crossed his mind, one that seemed too crazy even for him, but he couldn’t deny how right it felt, as he turned over possibilities in his mind.

“Eliza?” He traced patterns across her silky skin.

“Hmm?”

“How would you like to come with me? To America?”

She threw her arms around his neck. “You mean it? Really? I could come live with you in America?”

“Yes, I do.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “You could be my wife.”

She kissed him. “I would love to.”

He sat up, started to get dressed. “I don’t want to leave. But I have to get back to the Embassy.”

“It’s no wait when we have the rest of our lives together. In America.” He had never seen her look so happy.

He smoothed back her hair, squeezed her hand. “Soon enough.” He slipped out the room. Goodbyes were never his specialty, and he reminded himself that it wasn’t goodbye, not really. She would be his, him hers. He could hardly wait.

As he walked down the streets, he could sense that something was wrong. The busyness he associated with Saigon had shut down; an air of fear and abandonment lay thick in the air, thick as gunsmoke.

When he got to the American Embassy, he could see why. Crowds were thick around the gates, screaming, crying, in Vietnamese and English and French. He struggled to get past the din, and spotted Laurens inside the gates, directing others in large groups.

“Laurens!” He projected as far as he could, standing on the tips of his toes, praying that Laurens would notice him, cursing his shortness.

“Hamilton!” Laurens rushed to the gates, struggling to unlock them with the crowds desperate to get in. “I’m sorry,” He shouted to the crowd in Vietnamese. “I will do everything I can to get you out; the Ambassador won’t leave until everyone’s out.”

This did little to calm the crowd, but Alexander managed to get through.

“What the fuck is going on?” Alexander looked at the crowds of people, still pleading, still clamoring, tears pouring down their faces. His heart ached for them and their pain.

“We have to evacuate,” Laurens said breathlessly. “Everyone out by dawn. Saigon is as good as gone.”

Alexander bolted back to the gate. “Fuck! My Eliza is out there! I have to get her. ”

Laurens grabbed him by the back of his jacket. “Orders from Washington; nobody leaves.”

“I don’t give a fuck about Washington. My fiancée is out there, and I promised her—“ Tears stung the edge of his eyes, and he wiped them away carelessly. “I promised her, John, I have to get her. I can’t leave her behind; she’s the only thing I’ve cared for since I’ve been here.”

Mulligan rushed out to meet them. “To the roof, now!”

“What?” Laurens looked back at the crowds. “We can’t just abandon them.”

“No choice,” Mulligan said breathlessly. “Ambassador’s leaving now. Sent an order to freeze. No more Vietnamese. And I mean now. Choppers are on their way. It’s now or never.”

“I won’t leave without my Eliza.”

“Alex, please.” Laurens placed a hand on Alexander’s shoulder; he shrugged it off. “We have to go.”

Alexander rushed to the gate, started climbing the railing. Both Laurens and Mulligan were hot on his heels, Mulligan reaching and grabbing him by the waist, physically pulling him off the gate. He swang at both of them, making contact with flesh.

“Christ, Alex, I didn’t want to do this.” Fists made contact with his face; he was fighting blindly, anger and pain fueling him.

“Why am I saved instead of her? She’s the worthy one!”

“None of this makes sense, Alex, don’t you see that? Just stay alive; that’s all you can do.” Laurens was dragging him back into the compound, back towards safety.

“It’s not enough!” He roared. “It can never be enough!”

There was the unmistakable thump of a helicopter; both Mulligan and Laurens dragged him away from the front and towards the embassy, towards safety. He tried one last, desperate attempt to reach her.

“Eliza!”

 Laurens and Mulligan overpowered him. He fought with them every single step, until something hit him in the back of his head and everything went black.

* * *

 

New York, 1978

Not a day passed when he didn’t think of her. He felt as though he was drowning; his heart twisted in half. For the first year he was back from Vietnam he moved in a sort of shocked daze, speaking only to Laurens and Washington. Washington, who put up with his requests, every single day, to try and find Eliza. Everything was in chaos; little turned up. Hence the nightmares, where he saw her die, over and over again.

Maria was an afterthought. He didn’t mean for her to be; she had escaped an abusive situation with a boyfriend. Alexander had intervened, had helped get the scumbag sent to jail on charges of extortion. He had represented Maria in the case, and she had been helpless, so helpless…

He looked out the window, looking at the moon again, thinking of the moon he had seen in his precious few hours with Eliza. Hours he reviewed in his mind, the movie of his mind that never ended.

Maybe it would be better if Eliza were dead. Dead instead of stuck in that hellhole, instead of being punished for who she was and who she loved. Suffering at the hands of the new regime, while he was powerless to stop any harm from coming to her. He should have just taken her to the embassy with him, should have just dragged her with him, gotten her into that helicopter, visas be damned….

He slumped back against the pillows. No matter how much time passed, he would never be able to think himself out of Saigon.

Little did he know that thousands of miles away, Eliza sat up, staring at the moon, unable to sleep. Reaching into her cubbyhole, she pulled out a faded photograph. She traced the face she had dreamed of ever since that night, that she held closest to her heart. He would come for her. He would find her, and take her away from Saigon, take her to be his wife in America.

“My Alexander,” she murmured. “I still believe.”


End file.
